Even though I’m well past the age where such things should amuse me, I was recently reminded that I’m not above being entertained by certain childish, silly pleasures. Over the past few weeks, I’ve had occasion to daily-drive my ’84 Z28. Despite the fact that the interior of my Camaro is torn out, it’s a solid car—it rattles in only two or three places, each of which I can identify, along with the solution. The A/C doesn’t work at all and the stereo only a bit, deficiencies I would have brushed off as a kid but now find intolerable. It’s also loud—louder than I usually like. But the amped-up exhaust music isn’t without a payoff. It only takes a blip of the throttle to set off car alarms in the company parking garage, and damned if that doesn’t make me giggle like a juvenile delinquent reborn. It doesn’t make sense to consider it logically—at least not now—but I jab the pedal and laugh some more. When did car alarms get so sensitive, anyways?